


Bei Mir Bist Du Schön

by cantaloupe



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, New Game+, Self-Lubrication, Unrequited Love, WYK doesn't work on jack anymore, the luteces are there very briefly, there's a perfectly good reason for the self-lubrication i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 05:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15745305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantaloupe/pseuds/cantaloupe
Summary: Bei mir bist du schön,Please let me explain,Bei mir bist du schön,Means you're grand.Jack enters New Game+ and uses the opportunity to try and make Atlas think he's grand.





	Bei Mir Bist Du Schön

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xe2UXccid40)
> 
> also jack might speak a little strangely but i don't see why he shouldn't talk like he's from the 50s

He was in love. 

Not that he knew at the time what being “in love” _was_ \--the only thing he knew then was Kansas, mom and dad, and his cousins in England. Still, he might’ve not known what being in love exactly meant, but he was definitely was _in love_. A fool head-over-heels in love. He loved Atlas.

Down in Rapture, he’d get annoyed when Splicers interrupted Atlas’ transmissions. He’d beat their skulls in with the head of his wrench and wish that Atlas would repeat himself. Jack considered asking once, twice, more, but never had the courage. So, he contented himself with trying to reconstruct what was said and stitched together the bits and pieces he managed to catch. 

Atlas used to call him “boyo”. He liked when Atlas called him that. It warmed his entire body from the chest outward, regardless if he was bruised, battered, plastered with wet bandages on both fresh and old wounds alike. Atlas’ voice used to help him get by more than a first aid kit did. Jack needed the feeling that he meant something to someone, and getting it was enough to keep him on his feet for a few more minutes, hours.

In lulls of action, Jack busied himself with his imagination. He used to think about how Rapture must’ve looked before everything went down under. It must’ve been bright and beautiful. There would’ve been gents in suits and ladies in dresses, a bartender that would serve them Arcadian Merlot, while Bing Crosby spun under the needle. Jack didn’t have a bartender to serve him Merlot--he got it himself, swiped off a table--but he had Atlas. He liked to think that if they met in Rapture’s better days they would’ve met each other at some bar somewhere, with Jack sitting alone at the counter, and Atlas would’ve sidled up to him with the most brilliant smile and Jack would just--he would want to kiss that beautiful face. And hopefully, Atlas would want to kiss him too, and together they would walk to Atlas’ place in Artemis Suites. It wouldn’t be the most glorious living space, but there’d be a bed at least, and on that bed they would...they would make love to each other. 

Jack could dream up all he’d like, but Atlas’ loss of Moira and Patrick sat like a lump in his throat. Still, the more he drowned his feelings, the worse they resurfaced. It must’ve been a combination of the violence and its resulting fatigue that made him  _ excited _ whenever Atlas talked for extended periods of time. Jack ached for human contact. He ached for Atlas. Since he couldn’t have him, though, he would walk with his back to hacked cameras and huddle down in safe corners to wait his arousal out. Sometimes, Atlas would ask what he was doing, and that would start his problem all over again.

_ “What’re you doin’, boyo? Can’t see even a wink of you. If you want to take a break, do it where there’s a camera about. Don’t want you dyin’ on me fer no good reason.” _

Jack’s sure that at some point, Atlas caught wind of his particular ailment.

Eventually, though, it wouldn’t even matter. 

Jack looked forward to the praise he thought he’d get for bringing down Ryan. As soon as the job was done, he’d go straight to Atlas, since there would be no one left to fight, and there was no place he’d rather be in all of Rapture. Once he arrived, Atlas could hug him and praise him and Jack would be so delighted that he could finally hear his voice without the radio distortion. Then, hand-in-hand, they could walk through the streets and enjoy each other’s company. Jack liked Arcadia--they’d go back there and stroll amongst the greens. They could light a cigarette and pass it between their lips. Everything would be so brilliant and beautiful, even with the dilapidation, because Jack had Atlas and Atlas had Rapture. Rapture would be  _ their _ city. And, it was a silly thought but, Jack thought that given enough time, if he was lucky, if Atlas liked him enough, if they just worked at it together, if this, if that, eventually Atlas could fall in love with him, too. 

That isn’t what happened. 

What happened was that Ryan showed him who he really was. At best, he was a well-behaved slave. At worst, a man stripped of choice. Atlas became Fontaine. No, Atlas _ was _ Fontaine. Fontaine didn’t want him for any other reason than to kill Andrew Ryan, and now that Ryan was dead, Jack might as well be, too. 

Code Yellow was supposed to stop his heart, but it was already broken. Jack hurted. He hurted more than being drilled dead by a Big Daddy, more than absorbing his first plasmid and feeling his genetic code jump around just under his skin, more than the pounding headaches he’d get when he remembered something he wasn’t supposed to. Atlas was everything to him. Jack would’ve done anything for him, without a “would you kindly”. 

Atlas hurt him and he would’ve forgave him if he wasn’t so angry about falling in love with someone who wasn’t even _real_. They started playing pretend the moment Jack stepped out the bathysphere. He could wish differently with all his aching heart, but Atlas was like a ADAM-induced ghost, dressed up with a face and voice so that Fontaine could control a science experiment that never had any control in the first place. And, it worked. It probably worked far better than Fontaine ever thought it would. 

Fontaine _hurt him_ and the only way he knew how to retaliate was to hurt him _back_. So, Jack razed through Olympus Heights, Apollo Square, did it so fast he barely remembers any of it now. Tenenbaum spoke to him through the radio but it reminded him of times he’d rather forget. He fought his way into Point Prometheus. Fontaine had spliced himself up with plasmids, became this monster crackling with ADAM. He pounded Jack into the floor and told him that he _made_ him, was the reason he was everything he was now. Jack couldn’t disagree. Atlas _was_ the reason for most of the things he did.

Jack watched as ADAM was sucked out of Fontaine through needles that pierced him again and again and again and Jack didn’t know why but he wanted it to stop. He wanted to say sorry. 

But Fontaine was dead, and he couldn’t have apologized to someone who’d never hear it.

Jack left for the surface. Now, he has five adoptive daughters that he loves very much. He had trouble providing for all of them at first, but nothing that ADAM-enhanced strength and stamina couldn’t fix. He worked construction and landscaping and odd jobs and worked and worked until they grew up and found their own jobs and fell in love and had beautiful children and beautiful families. He’s glad he could help them become happy. 

His daughters married. He didn’t. He tried to date, but it never worked out. When he thought it might be because he has a preference for men, he tried again. Too many disappointed bed partners later, Jack figured that maybe dating just wasn’t for him, and he was fine with that. He was fine with waking up in a cold sweat some nights, Atlas’ name on his lips and a tent in his pants. This went on for some time, some forty to fifty years to even now, actually. He doesn’t experience the physicality of it anymore, but even on his deathbed, he’s thinking about an Irish accent from a man he sunk leagues under the Atlantic sea. 

He’s still in love.

It’s only now he realizes that he’s still a fool in love, and that he’d go through it all again just to hear him one more time. 

His daughters put their hands in his. If there’s a Heaven...well, he wouldn’t meet Atlas there. He might just have to get himself into trouble and drop into Hell for him. What would he even say? Would Atlas even look like Atlas? Maybe he’d look like Fontaine and--well, Jack would take what he could get. Maybe Fontaine could humor him and put on the accent for old time’s sake. He’d like that. He’d like that very much.

Jack closes his eyes. He hears the drone of the flatline. 

If he listens close enough, he can hear the swell of the sea, too. He can smell the salt of the ocean and can feel cold rain hammer down against his skin. He sways like he’s rocking amidst restless waters and feels more at home than he has in a long time.

“ _ Though there's little to like in this Atlas fellow, one must admire the lilt in his brogue. _ ” 

Jack opens his eyes. He’s sat in a rowboat, and there’s two people manning the bow. One, actually. There’s a man rowing the oars and a woman who sits in front of him, blocking the view to his face. 

“I imagine  _ he’s _ found quite a bit to like about Atlas. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.” 

Where was he? 

“I disagree. We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t decided to come here.” 

Who were these people?

“I didn’t  _ decide  _ to come here at all.  _ He _ called us here.”

Shouldn’t he be dead? 

“I suppose we are meant to be his deliverers, then. Like bringing a pig to slaughter.”

Maybe he died and this is supposed to be Heaven. Heaven would be a very wet place, then.

“Or like putting a bird back in its cage. Either way, it isn’t a very pleasant analogy.”

Maybe this isn’t Heaven, though.

“Atlas isn’t a very pleasant man.”

Maybe this is Hell.

“It brings into question  _ his _ romantic preferences. Perhaps it’s a preference for the horribly unromantic?” 

If this is Hell, then...

“I would say a preference for the generally horrible. We’ve arrived.” 

Arrived, where? Jack looks up. 

There’s a lighthouse. He remembers another years ago, how he threw himself onto its steps after swimming through a sea of fire. He considers for a moment that he might still be alive and delivered back to Rapture just because--but even if he were, there would be no one to welcome him. Actually, maybe Tenenbaum, if she’s still alive, but he wouldn’t be inclined to stay just for her. Still, he could simply be dead, and this was death’s way of welcoming him.

Rapture or no Rapture, Heaven or Hell, Jack has nowhere to go but forward. He steps out of the boat and turns around to thank the two for their work, but they’re already rowing away. Perhaps the lighthouse wasn’t a place they wanted to stay too long at. Well, Jack goes and climbs the stairs, steps in front the gated doors, and pushes them open. He catches the look of his sleeve and notices that it’s part of a wool sweater. He’s wearing a wool sweater. 

When he enters the lighthouse, fluorescents flash on, and a golden bust of Andrew Ryan sneers down at him, bearing a red banner embroidered with the phrase  _ “No gods or kings, only man” _ . 

A knot drops into Jack’s stomach. Jack walks past the bust and down a flight of stairs into a bathysphere holding room. He steps into the bathysphere and pulls the lever. The door seals itself up behind him, and together they submerge a whole ten fathoms before a screen springs up and a projection plays on the canvas.

A portrait of Andrew Ryan tells him that he _chose_ _Rapture_ and then Jack _sees_ _Rapture,_ every watery inch of it, and God must either have a cruel sense of humor to make Hell look like this _,_ or he must really be back home _._

The bathysphere slides up against a tunnel without walls and God  _ must be _ cruel because he thinks he can hear Atlas’ voice. No, not  _ think, _ he  _ does _ , buzzing through the shorthand radio at his left. Jack surfaces, water slicking off the window, and someone--Johnny, one of Atlas’ men--gets gutted by a Spider Splicer. That same Splicer crawls up the bathysphere and tries to gut him too, punching into metal with her hooks, but can’t. She screams at him, jumps up into the ceiling, and is gone.

Déjà vu.

_ “Would you kindly pick up that shortwave radio?” _

Hearing a  _ “would you kindly” _ again pulls his shoulders taut. Though he’s broken free of the invocation, the phrase still comes with memories he’d rather forget. A thought: he could just leave the radio here and Atlas, or at least he thinks it’s Atlas, would have no means to communicate with him, unless he came down and spoke to him himself. That would be interesting, but...he lifts the radio from its slot on the wall anyway because...because it’s probably Atlas, and he’s a fool. 

_ “I don’t know how you survived that plane crash, but I ne’er was one to question Providence. I’m Atlas, and I aim to keep you alive. Now keep on movin’.”  _

Jack knows that he’s heard this before. He also knows that he didn’t arrive following a plane crash, and that Atlas is only being nice to lull him into complacency. Still, he holds the radio to his chest and can’t help but smile. Oh God, did he miss that voice. He can feel his heart thump inside of his chest and his face warm with blood and knows he’s exhibiting all those little tell-tales of someone struck by Cupid’s arrow.

There’s a possibility is that this isn’t Hell, that he isn’t dead, and that he’s been given a second chance at love. 

This possibility becomes a probability the deeper he gets into Rapture. Jack sets off, radio hooked to his belt. He receives explanations for concepts he already knows, goes through places he’s already spent time in, experiences events that he’s already seen. The things that once were frightening are frightening no longer--he isn’t afraid to gun down Big Daddies now, and not one has managed to kill him, yet.

The Vita-Chambers aren’t seeing much use, if any. His wrench swing is stronger and his Plasmids are better than he remembers them being this early on. Splicers go down with just one hit or two. Cameras and turrets are made invalid for inordinate amounts of time. He rescues Little Sisters and gets ADAM out of it, but he has no use for it. He has so much excess ADAM that sometimes, his body makes him double over and throw it up. Well, Little Sisters seem to have no preference whether or not the ADAM they can scavenge is packaged in a body. 

Atlas says things he’s heard before. He talks about his family, Ryan, this and that. Jack is perfectly content listening, but he can’t help but think that if this is his second chance, he has to do something to change. As things are going now, he’s just going to end up thrown away at the end of it all, again. He’d hate for that to happen. He wonders if he messes up he’ll just be rowed back to the lighthouse, but he shouldn’t be thinking about messing up, he should be thinking about what he can be doing now to change Atlas’ mind about him. 

How could he go from being seen as an asset to being seen as a person?

It’s not like appealing to Altas’ human nature would do him any good. He could cry and beg all he’d like, but Atlas really is Fontaine after all, and Fontaine would do anything to rip Andrew Ryan’s city out of his hands and keep it for himself. This includes, but is not limited to, exploitation of human resources. 

No, Jack has to give him an offer he can’t refuse. But what can he offer him? He doesn’t need firepower--Jack is all his firepower already--so that’s not on option. He could go on strike, but that would just make Atlas want to get rid of him all the sooner. Still, it’s not like Atlas could get rid of him even if he wanted to. Code Yellow, like “would you kindly”, is probably null. Acting like a brat, though, isn’t the kind of action you want to employ if you want to keep in someone’s favor.

There must be something that Atlas needs and can’t get. Everyone needs something in Rapture. Splicers need ADAM, Jack needs Atlas, Atlas needs…

...there aren’t many decent-looking folk in Rapture, are there? And Atlas, Atlas must have some standards at least, considering that ego of his, and Jack’s mother  _ was _ an exotic dancer and he feels like exotic dancing  _ might _ be an inherited talent, and Jack doesn’t even know if Atlas is interested in men but he doesn’t have much choice now, does he. Not when the women of Rapture look the way they do. 

Moira and Patrick be damned. They weren’t real in the first place, regardless of how real they were made to feel. 

He goes back through Arcadia and into the Farmer’s Market. The Lazarus Vector’s been employed, and Arcadia should be empty, excluding himself.

His radio crackles. “Where are you goin’, boyo? The bathysphere’s back that’a way.” 

Jack enters the Worley Winery. He approaches the bar counter and then leans against it, facing the hacked camera on the wall directly across from him.

“Atlas--” 

It occurs to Jack that he’s never directly addressed Atlas. He’s only ever answered when called. Still, that shouldn’t stop him from carrying out what he needs to. Jack tries to say something witty but--but he just can’t. He thought seduction, like many other skills, would come naturally to him. Discovering the contrary, Jack finds himself at a loss, words caught in his throat, a blush crawling up his neck. A dreamer as always, he envisioned a happily-ever-after with Atlas after delivering some whizbang dialogue. 

“What’s the ma’er? If you’re hurtin’ fer some first aid, there’s one sittin’ on the floor right over there. Grab that, and let’s get the Hell out of here.” The camera moves to point it out for him. 

“No, that’s...that’s not it.” He looks up at the camera lens, “...Atlas, I…” He isn’t sure what to say. Isn’t sure what to do, either. Jack blinks down at the floor. He should’ve given more thought to this. Here is his last chance before their relationship heads south--after this is Fort Frolic, where Sander Cohen insists on a good time, and after that is Hephaestus, which on top of being Andrew Ryan’s deathbed, isn’t quite the setting he had in mind.

“Have you got somethin’ to say t’me? If you don’t, would you kindly get goin’. We’re here to kill kings, not time.” Jack hears the whirr of the lens as it focuses in on him. 

Atlas doesn’t know that he’s broke “would you kindly”. Jack’s been meticulous about it. Now, he  _ has _ to say something, or the jig’s up. “Atlas, sometimes when you--” he’s just going to say anything and whatever comes out of his mouth isn’t going to be his responsibility, “--when you talk for awhile, I feel quite  _ strange _ .” A fresh wave of heat washes over his face. He thought he’d be charming, delivering his lines with a wink and a smile, but instead, he’s the contrary. His mother would be ashamed, if she were still alive.

“...what exactly are you meanin’ by that?” Atlas’ voice has sunk down an octave and Christ, if that didn’t do something to Jack. His lips thin as a shudder passes through him.

Jack crosses his ankles, one over the other, “Well...strange means strange, doesn’t it? I can’t exactly explain what it means. I just get a feeling that’s out of sorts…” if he continues on being vague like this, Atlas might just get impatient enough with him to make him leave, “...I have a confession to make.” He feels the stare of the camera on him, and sweats under its watch. 

“Well, I don’t fancy myself a reverend, but I’m not goin’ to stop you neither. Go ahead.” 

“When I say strange I mean...I mean I get  _ uncomfortable. _ Hot under the collar, all that, you know?” He’s feeling hot under the collar right now, actually. Jack swallows, folds his arms, and hopes Atlas understands him, because he doesn’t picture himself gifted in the explicit. 

“Hold on there, let me get this sorted. So, you’re sayin’ that I make you too big for your britches, literally speakin’, the more I gab on?” The camera hums, its lens clicks.

In Jack, the attention Atlas grants him shoots southward and burns. “I-I think it’s something like that, yes.” He hopes Atlas isn’t noticing what he’s noticing, but there’s no way he can’t be, not when there’s a camera stuck right on him and recording every embarrassing inch. 

Atlas laughs. He’s laughing at him. “You’ve got the glad eye for me, boyo?” 

“I think you’re the grandest person I know,” That laugh should’ve discouraged him and yet… “though I admit, I don’t know many people.” ...his trousers are getting tighter. 

“Well aren’t you a sweet lad, then.” A silence breathes between them.

Maybe this is it. Maybe Atlas is just going to send him on his way now, considerate enough to not reject him forthright, but Jack'd understand. There’s no room for attachments on the way to Rapture’s throne. And, well, it really isn’t too bad of a situation after all, since he had the opportunity to confess to Atlas, and did. Now at least Atlas  _ knows _ that he likes him. It isn’t by much, but Jack’s done better than the first time around. 

The radio pops, “We’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t we? Rapture’s been hard on you and I. But, through it all, you’ve been so good to me...so I was thinkin’ that I could help you out a wee bit. How about it?” 

His heart explodes into a wild thrum. It’s hard to hear himself over the blood in his ears. “I-I’d be delighted.” His voice is tight, his nails are buried in his arms, he wishes he could relax but he can’t when every part of him is screaming.

“Good. Alright boyo, would you kindly unzip your trousers and show me what’s hidin’ there? Let’s take this nice and slow.” 

Jack’s hands shake so much that he thinks he might actually not be able to, but he somehow manages to get his fingers where they need to be, and they unbutton, unzip his slacks. The fabric crumples down to his knees. It was hard to ignore before but it’s even harder now that he has eyes on it, because it’s apparent he’s straining against his briefs. Knowing the camera’s there is not doing him any favors, either. Jack looks away and clamps his hands onto the counter behind him. He isn’t naked, but it feels like it.

“Is all that because of me? Well, aren’t you a pretty sight to see.” Atlas holds a pause, then lets it go, “Why don’t you start workin’ with it? Start out slowly, now. No one’s in a hurry, yet.” 

He jerks a hand over to his front and lets it hover there for one second, two, before sliding it down over. He feels himself jump into his palm and sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. Atlas is watching him. Atlas is watching him do this to himself and he doesn’t want to disappoint so Jack begins stroking himself through his briefs. It’s rough going at first but gets easier, his hand eventually steadies, and when that happens, he looks back up at the camera. 

“You’re doin’ perfect just like that. Now, slip those briefs right off. I would bet you they’re gettin’ in the way. Do that, and keep on goin’.” 

He pulls the elastic down his hips and shudders. He must be burning right now, because the air soothes like a balm. Jack takes a moment to get accustomed to the temperature, breathing out an exhale, and then wraps himself in his hand. He works, slowly like Atlas asked him to do, his palm sliding up and down in controlled movements, though not without the occasional stutter. 

“Good boy. While you’re at that, enlighten me a bit. Since you’ve an interest in me and all, I figure you’ve thought about things like this before, things about you and me. Tell me about them.”

Jack chokes on nothing. His hand stills. He  _ has _ thought about them before, more times than he can remember, but it’s something he never saw himself confessing to. But, Atlas asked him to do something and he’s not the kind of person who wants to be disobedient. He wants to be good for Atlas. Jack tries to bury himself in instruction, but finds himself unable to follow, and becomes hotter and hotter with embarrassment until he’s lightheaded.

“I didn’t ask you to stop, now did I? Don’t keep me waitin’ like this. The Lord hates a quitter.” 

He has to say something. First, he gets his hand moving again, hoping it’ll ease him into some wording. It does relax him, though not by any considerable amount. He’ll have to work with what he has, then. “I’ve thought about us quite a lot,” Jack swallows around the lump in his throat, “I’ve thought about you doing things to me. A lot of things.” 

“What kind of things? You’re not exactly bein’ generous with the details here.” 

“Well, you...I’ve thought about you kissing me. Kissing me all over, really, but I...I especially thought about you kissing my neck until it’s sore, with bruises all over.” Jack shivers, rolling his hips up to meet his hand. He’d be marked, all the way from just under his ears to right above his chest. The color would stain him above the collar of his sweater, so there would be no hiding it, and even though there’s nobody around but Splicers, they could still take a look at him and know he was  _ somebody’s _ . 

“I’ll let you go faster now, boyo. What other kinds of things have you dreamed up? Let me hear about them.”

He slips into a faster pace, one that’s just a notch up from before, but it’s enough to part his lips and force his breaths shallower, “I’ve thought about you touching me, using your hands to touch me, but you’d be going so  _ slow _ . You’d know exactly what that was doing to me, and I’d get impatient, and then you’d ask me what was it that I wanted from you.” It’d just be another way of asking Jack to beg, which he’d realize, but he’d tell him what he wanted to hear anyway, because he’d be so strung up from being teased, and because Atlas asked him to. Mostly, because Atlas asked him to. 

“Well, why don’t I go ahead and ask you now? What do you want me to do to you?” 

There was a lot he wanted Atlas to do to him. He’d be satisfied with anything, really. Jack wasn’t picky as long as he  _ had _ Atlas in the first place. Still, if he had to decide, he’d want him to…Jack goes faster in the time he expends to think, precum slicking his palm. “I’d really like it if you could...” there’s no better way of phrasing it, so he just puts it out there, “...I-I want you to fuck me.” Christ, he went and said it, and it felt so  _ good _ to.

“How badly do you want it? How badly do you want me to fuck you?” Atlas’ voice drops low, and Jack chokes back a moan. 

“More than anything else,” Jack presses up into his hand, “I want you more than anything else, Atlas.” He wants everything Atlas can give him, wants his lips, hands, cock, more. He wants to not only occupy, but to own his attention. He wants to be his, without being slave to a “would you kindly”. It’s Jack’s  _ choice _ , now, to give himself up as he sees fit. And he will, if Atlas allows him to.

“Excuse me, couldn’t quite catch your answer there. Mind repeatin’ it again?.” 

He knows he heard him the first time, but okay, fine. He will. Jack breathes, “I  _ need _ you, Atlas. Please, Atlas I...I need you here. I need you so much.” His hand’s getting to not be enough for him. It  _ isn’t _ enough for him. The more he works himself, the more he feels an emptiness inside ache. It wants and needs, just as much as he does.

“Again? Tell me again. Sorry, you know how Rapture is, growin’ pile of junk and all that.”

Jack groans, tears hot in his eyes, and lets go of himself. He’s hard and leaking, but it’s nothing compared to his lack, which is becoming greedier the more he leaves it be. Sure, he wants to listen to Atlas, but Jack’s running up towards his limit already. He’s impatient, he wants something in him, and to get it now, he’ll just have to satisfy himself. He kicks off his slacks, his underwear, and looks up into the camera. He’s not going to wait.

“What’re you doin’ there, boyo?” 

Jack reaches around and presses his pointer finger against his entrance. He’s--he’s wet? Last time he checked, he was a Jack, not a Jill. He stops to take a quick look at his hand. ADAM. There’s ADAM on his finger. He must’ve been unable to absorb all the excess and--oh, whatever, he just wants to fuck himself and wants Atlas to watch. Extra ADAM probably never hurt anyone, anyway. Jack puts his pointer back where it was before and pushes in, gasping. He’s tight. 

The radio’s quiet. Jack knows Atlas is still watching. He lets his finger still within him, hissing out a breath through his teeth, spreading his legs for ease of access. He’ll have to take this slow for now. He draws out and enters back in, does it again, does it more to allow himself to get accustomed to the feeling. It isn’t enough, but he doesn’t want to end up hurting. His insides throb against him. ADAM drips down his hand. He works his finger at a casual rhythm until he relaxes and the vice around himself eases open. He sighs. Finally. 

Jack pushes in a second finger next to the first, tensing for a long moment before he resettles. He starts moving again, pushing his fingers apart, stroking himself open. It first needed some patience, but he’s beginning to feel good again. Tension’s making its exit and with its leave, Jack fills in the absence by thrusting deeper. He curls his fingers--not there, not there either-- _ Christ. _ He arches his back, clenching his teeth. More. He wants to show Atlas what he does to him, what he’s done to him already.

ADAM runs down the inside of his thigh. He’s fucking himself where it feels best, and it has him moaning, but it’s also leaves him wanting. It still isn’t enough. He adds a third finger and he stretches wider to accommodate the width. He doesn’t feel a difference. He realizes he needs Atlas to give him that difference. He needs  _ Atlas _ . Jack thinks about him, him being here, being inside of him, and the thought coaxes his name off his lips.

“Atlas, where  _ are _ you? I  _ need _ you,  _ please _ .” Jack begs to a silent radio, “I need you right  _ now _ .”

The air holds its breath, and then, an answer.

“Would you kindly stay right there.” The line crackles, and then is quiet again. 

He was coming to him. Atlas was coming to him and it would be the first time he’d be meeting him without a wrench in one hand and ready plasmids in another. He was coming because he  _ wanted _ him, wanted Jack. Maybe not as much as Jack wanted him, but Atlas still needed something he couldn’t get otherwise. How long was it going to take him? The distance between them is just a bathysphere ride, and Rapture isn’t the biggest city. He could be getting into a bathysphere right now. He could already be making his way to Arcadia. 

“Take your fingers out. I don’t want you doin’ things when I can’t see ‘em.”

Jack startles at the transmission and jerks his fingers out. He clenches around nothing. Atlas didn’t sound like the Irish every-man. He sounded...he sounded _ mad _ , and Jack could hear an undertone of the Bronx in his brogue. Circumstances being as they were, he was probably the one who made him like that, and would have to face the consequences of doing so. A shiver washes through him. 

Atlas is taking a while. Maybe he’s lost, which he understands, the gardens aren’t the most linear experience. Jack presses his thighs together. He doesn’t want to wait, but he has no choice. Meanwhile, his insides are throbbing so hard it makes it difficult to think about much else. He wishes Atlas was here already. 

He’s jostled out of his stupor when someone pushes him up against the countertop. Jack didn’t hear the door open--maybe it wasn’t Atlas, maybe it was a Splicer hungry for ADAM and happened to smell it off him. That shouldn’t be possible, but the fight’s already in him. Jack’s eyes snap up, body tense with adrenaline, and looks into a pair of bright blues. 

“Are you scared of me, boyo? That’s funny, you’re the one who asked fer me in the first place.” Atlas’ eyes flick down and back up, “You look good in color.” 

It’s--it’s him. Oh Christ, it’s him. Jack’s face explodes with heat. His heart pounds with the energy of a shotgun. He wants to look at Atlas and learn every detail, but can’t because even the sight of him makes Jack lightheaded. Atlas is so close. He smells like cigarette smoke, stale alcohol and musk. Not the most attractive combination, but it doesn’t matter to Jack. He wants to bury his face in Atlas’ neck and just stay there close to him, wants to smell him, listen to his voice, feel his heartbeat while he gets fucked the way Atlas likes. 

“You never talked very much. Thought you were mute until now, actually. How things have changed. Just recently, you were singin’ like a canary fer me.” A hand slides up between Jack’s legs, “I thought it might’ve been some trouble with the camera, but as it turns out, you really are as wet as a broad. Isn’t that somethin’ special?” 

His voice sounds so  _ clear _ . Jack shudders against Atlas’ hand, tightens even though there’s nothing to tighten around. He hears the clink of a belt buckle and looks down. 

“Like what you see?”

“Yes.” He imagines he’ll he feeling it, more than seeing it, soon enough.

“Honest, aren’t you. Hop up and lay down on the counter, boyo.” Jack does what’s asked of him. The countertop isn’t wide enough to support his height, so he keeps his hands wrapped over the edge to secure himself. This was happening. God, this was happening  _ right now _ . Jack’s breathing stutters. Atlas presses up against him and holds his hips, “You made this real easy fer me, and I gotta thank you fer that. Worked yourself up fer me like a good boy.” 

Jack feels himself fill as Atlas enters. He moans, locking his ankles behind Atlas’ back. It’s so  _ good _ to get what he wants. “Still tight, even after all that,” there’s a tension strung in Atlas’ voice, “Christ, you feel heavenly.” It goes both ways. The satisfaction of having Atlas here, in him, is already enough to get him to cum. He won’t though, not yet. Jack plans on milking this for all its worth. While he’s trying not to climax, however, he’s clamped around Atlas like he wants to keep him to himself. He does want to monopolize all his attention, but the constriction isn’t doing Atlas any good, apparently. “Could you loosen up a wee bit, though? I can’t move worth a damn.” Atlas asks through his teeth. 

Jack lets out a breath, slow past his lips, and relaxes. “There you go.” Atlas begins to pull out of him, “Now, I bet you knew exactly what you were doin’ to me earlier, when you were lookin’ into the camera and actin’ the way you were.” He stops when his head’s the only part of him still in Jack, “I don’t think you expect me to take that lyin’ down, now do you?” 

Jack is forced an inch up the countertop, a moan tearing out of his throat, when Atlas rams into him. “Answer me.” Atlas withdraws and slams into him again, making Jack’s hands slip out of their hold. His arms wrap around Atlas’ neck in an effort to reestablish his balance, and hugs closer when Atlas sets his pace to slow but  _ violent _ . Jack gets the breath pounded out him, and he wastes the air he’s spared on wordless vocalizations.

“ _ Answer me _ , god dammit.” He’d answer if the answer wasn’t being fucked out of him. Still, he manages a broken  _ ‘no, I’m sorry’ _ between thrusts, blinking tears out of his eyes.

“You wanted me here,” Slow’s working itself up into moderate, “you wanted me here so I could fuck you like you deserve.” 

“ _Yes._ ” He gasps. It’s exactly what he wanted, Atlas here, fucking him, and it feels more incredible than incredible to have it. The order left in Jack’s thoughts leaves with each ram of Atlas’ hips. A white nothingness explodes behind his eyelids.

“You want to be mine, _ is that right? _ ” Atlas is crushing his hips in his hands. There’ll be bruising later, black and purple in the shape of what was there. Jack should be hurting because of it, but he can’t feel much other than an in-out, in-out.

“Yes, I do--” He’s getting to his breaking point, “--Atlas I’m going to..!”

_ “You’re going to cum when I say you can.”  _ Moderate runs into fast and faster. Jack presses up against Atlas, nails digging into his own arms, and tries his best to follow orders. Precum leaks onto his stomach, and ADAM leaks elsewhere. He has to remember--he’s not allowed to cum yet. Not even when he’s feeling this  _ close _ and not even when Atlas is making this as difficult as he can, thrusting into him at a bruising tempo. Jack can’t cum yet, he can’t...

He can’t do this. _“Please,_ _Atlas.”_

_“Cum.”_ Atlas rasps.

_ Fuck.  _ Jack thinks he screams. He doesn’t know, he can’t hear himself. 

Jack comes down. His throat feels hoarse and as consequence, his voice is probably shot. He wheezes in breaths through parted lips and lets go of Atlas, putting an arm over his forehead. Sweat sticks to his forearm. 

Atlas pulls out and Jack groans at the emptiness that follows. As Atlas is relooping his belt, he asks, “Would you kindly forget all that just now?” 

Jack isn’t just some one-night-stand. He sits up, wincing, and despite his fatigue manages a frown at Atlas. “I won’t.” 

Atlas freezes. His eyes snap onto Jack. 

“Atlas, I...I know everything. I know who you really are, know about ‘would you kindly’ and all that. So no, I’m not going to forget.” Jack’s lips thin from the ache in his throat, “And before you try and Code Yellow me, I’m just going to tell you that’s probably not going to work either.” He adjusts his position so that he’s more comfortable--though that’s a relative term considering how messy the countertop is now that he’s sitting on it. 

Atlas is silent until he isn’t. His mouth cracks into a smile and he laughs, though it’s more air than sound, “You should’a told me earlier, kid. Would’ve saved me a whole lot of breath.” His accent is thick with the Bronx. A pause is held, killed, and the mirth drops out of his expression, “Fuck. There goes all my plans for this dump of a city.” 

“No, wait. I’ll still get rid of Andrew Ryan for you, I just…” Jack’s in a position to negotiate and he plans on using it, “...I want something in return.” 

“And what would that be, huh?’ Atlas crosses his arms. He’s picture-perfect, neglecting the faint color on his cheeks. 

“Let’s go on a date after everything’s all said and done.” They’re doing things backwards, aren’t they? A date usually comes before, not after, what they just did.

“Are you serious?” Atlas snorts.

“Perfectly serious.” Jack stares him down. 

“...alright, as far as terms go, I’ve dealt with worse.” Atlas uncrosses his arms and puts a hand on his hip, “After Ryan’s, come swing by my place. We’ll see how it goes from there.”

“Bei mir bist du schön.” A smile passes onto Jack’s lips. 

“What?”

“I heard it in a song once. Apparently, it means  _ ‘you’re grand.’ _ ” 

“You’re nuts, kid.” Atlas shakes his head.

“Maybe so.” Jack reaches over, cradles Atlas’ face in his hands, and kisses him. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> jatlas will never die


End file.
